


paint me in sunset golds and river blues

by coppertears



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Artist!Jongin, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Triggers, angst angst angst, implied suicide, living artwork!Baekhyun, past!Jongin/Kyungsoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppertears/pseuds/coppertears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>baekhyun has always been the medium, not the subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**paint me in sunset golds and river blues**  
kai/baekhyun  
pg-13  
w: swearing, dark themes(suicide, child abuse)  
baekhyun has always been the medium, not the subject.

on hungry days when the sky dribbles down more blue than white, baekhyun learns how to hide himself in corners where people won't look. he buries his face in his knees and tries to breathe despite the emptiness begging for attention inside him, and he thinks of a thousand places he can run to someday when everything gets better. in this world people expect you to give them something, and if you can't then you're left to wither, left to die.

his mother is a mess of bones boiling heads of cabbages when there's nothing else to eat. baekhyun thinks she looks like scribbled lines pulled taut with worry, and every emotion she can hold has probably been erased a long time ago. it's her resignation that lingers on baekhyun's skin whenever she hugs him, her eyes as delicate as blown glass, and her fingers always crackle with the sparks of an idea that's never come to fruition.

his father is an aspiring artist who dreams of making a masterpiece, but sometimes oils and brushes and canvases can't feed a family starving down to nothing, and every day it seems like he gets a little more desperate. he storms around drinking beer with whatever wages he gets from menial jobs he's offered in town, bemoaning his lack of recognition and swearing that he'll gain attention soon -- he'll be famous and he'll have money, _don't you worry_. but _soon_ almost never comes, and every time his father comes home drunk, baekhyun is pushed inside the wooden closet with a quiet _go to sleep_ by his mother.

they dance outside the doors of the closet. they dance to the tune of slurs and insults and heaving sobs, and sometimes that melody is punctuated by a shrill scream. baekhyun closes his eyes and goes to sleep like he's told, trying not to think of waltzes where hands are fisted and bruises blossom on skin, where objects twirl and smash and shatter in the air.

when you're still a child you're told what to believe in, and you believe it not because there's a conviction in you, but because you never want to face the other possibilities lurking in the dark. and that's what baekhyun does: he listens to his mother's words and absorbs his father's lies, and he turns his attention away from the shadows creeping up his hunched shoulders.

he's not protected for very long.

one night his father comes home drunk, and baekhyun is pushed into the closet as usual. but tonight there's no dance, no song, no unseen horrors; tonight his father screams out insults to the critics who say his art is ordinary. "i'll show them," his father says, and baekhyun hears his mother's tears hit the floor, "i'll show them what _extraordinary_ is."

and then he pushes open the closet doors, and there's a confusion of limbs and a push, a pull, but his father throws his mother to the side. baekhyun sees the light pour in, he sees his father drowning in inebriation and brilliant ideas, and he can't help the fear that crawls its way into his heart. in seconds he's being carried to his father's work room, and he is tossed to the floor like a doll. his father locks the door.

but the wood isn't enough to block the sound of his mother pleading, _leave baekhyunnie alone_ , and baekhyun wonders what will happen next as his father tears off his clothes with a maniacal laugh. there's an edge to the laughter, a razor sharp quality to it, and baekhyun curls up into a ball as his father approaches with a chisel.

"why didn't i think of this before?" his father says, his tone almost reverent.

baekhyun thinks his throat rips itself out when the first cut is made.

 

 

 

 

his father gives him his own room and dresses him up in nice, clean clothes. baekhyun stays silent and thinks back to the days when he used to stay in the closet, lilted to sleep by his mother's broken lullabies whispering through the cracks in the doors. he wishes he can go back to the closet, he wishes he can wear his tattered but comfortable outfits again. but his father tells his mother to _make baekhyun presentable_ , and baekhyun's hair is coiffed and styled, and his mother's trembling fingers smooth make-up on his face.

she washes him in their bathroom with the bulb turned off, and she says it's to conserve energy because they've been spending a lot of money on taking care of baekhyun lately, but baekhyun knows. he knows why her voice catches while she's pouring water down his back, and he knows why she leaves him to dress up by himself.

he's seen his own reflection.

etched into his skin is a tangled network of scars that depict abstract constellations and entire galaxies. there is a universe drawn by knife on his flesh, and his father has cleverly invented a method to pour colors down the ridges in such a way that they'll never fade. because baekhyun is a masterpiece now, a living painting that will shift and change as he grows, and he's no longer a human but an _objet d'art_.

he is something to be sold, something to be put up for exhibition, and when baekhyun listens to his father's enthusiastic explanations he just feels numb. when you're a work of art you can't do anything against your creator, because you'll be forgotten as soon as you do so. but sometimes baekhyun thinks that being forgotten is worth it, that being neglected is a far better prospect, and he's not lured in by the promise of lights and shows and beautiful things.

after all, he won't be on vacation -- he'll be on display.

"for the meantime i'll get a few jobs," his father says, running paint-splattered fingers through baekhyun's hair. "the painting's too young. we'll have to let you mature first, so that the real beauty of it can be seen. when you're 16 we'll go to a special place where you'll meet a lot of people. and i'll finally get to show them my genius."

his mother grips the spoon and continues sipping her soup, but baekhyun thinks she's been swallowing words and indignation and fire a lot lately, that the soup can only be tasteless now. he wonders why she doesn't save him but he soon thinks, as his mother gets up and collects the dishes, that she's always been powerless.

sometimes when they share a look he sees the desires spiraling in her eyes; he sees her regret, her guilt, and when her fingers close over his wrist he can feel _escape_ thudding in her veins.

he wonders if she's ever thought of taking him with her.

 

 

 

 

baekhyun remembers when his parents could still afford to let him go to school. he remembers wearing scratchy uniforms made out of the cheapest materials, but he also remembers being so happy that people say he glows brighter than the sun. he becomes best friends with a kid named chanyeol when baekhyun runs straight into him while playing tag.

chanyeol comes from a well-off family, but baekhyun never quite feels the divide. chanyeol is open, and friendly, and _nice_ ; and sometime later baekhyun thinks that maybe chanyeol was more than a friend. chanyeol doesn't tease him about his shoes or his lack of toys. he treats him like they're equals, like they weigh the same on the scales of life, and baekhyun likes to believe that's true.

chanyeol is the one who teaches him how to play the piano in a dusty classroom.

"i don't really understand pianos," chanyeol says with some sheepishness. "but it seems like you do."

when sunlight filters through the windows and the school bells don't ring, chanyeol props up music sheets on the stand and guides baekhyun's fingers through the keys. together they glide, performing a duet on ivory and black, and baekhyun feels a little more at peace with himself.

but soon his father's drunken fits start up again, and baekhyun is told to stop going to school. on his last day he gives chanyeol a tear-soaked letter on his last piece of writing paper, and he stands there with his eyes staring at the ground. eventually chanyeol folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket; eventually chanyeol reaches for baekhyun and holds him close, and baekhyun doesn't cry but chanyeol does.

baekhyun still recalls walking away from chanyeol, too tired to offer promises because all this time he's been wrong and he's never had the right to have a normal life. and chanyeol has too much snot and tears that he fights back with a smile that's too wide, and he says _we'll be okay._

and baekhyun takes that because that's all he has left, and it runs through his mind every now and then. _we'll be okay_. maybe chanyeol will be, but not baekhyun. chanyeol has left a long time ago, after all -- their family's moved to another town.

he wonders if they'll meet again but he doubts it. and if they do, it won't be the same.

his mutilated body reminds him of that every single time.

 

 

 

 

when he turns 16, baekhyun spends over an hour watching the sunrise and relishing the last dregs of his freedom. the room is chilly and his blanket is thin, and today there's a new ache in his bones and a soreness in his skin. he pulls up his shirt and gazes at the hues splashed across his stomach, and he contemplates if it's possible to hold the universe without bursting into stardust.

then the door opens and his father is too cheerful, and baekhyun is hauled to the bathroom. his mother is waiting -- the lights are on, the water is warm, and she looks away when baekhyun takes off his clothes. his father spins him around and says _you're perfect_ , and baekhyun tries to figure out if he's saying it to his artwork or his son. but baekhyun's been lost the moment his father had torn apart his flesh, so he knows that now he's simply his father's beloved masterpiece.

in silence he and his mother say their goodbyes, over shampoo froth and splashes of water and soap lather, and baekhyun pretends he doesn't see the tears in his mother's eyes as she runs her hands over his scars. she dresses him up in new clothes and baekhyun feels so much like a little boy again, like she's sending him off to school. she draws eyeliner over his lids and styles his hair and makes him look polished because his face is still part of the painting, and the painting is supposed to be perfect.

there is a moment when she buries her lips in his hair and baekhyun feels like there is a lump in his throat. "i love you," she says, and right there he can feel her shattering though she's whole and solid and real beside him. "i love you."

his father comes in and she straightens up, once again a stick figure of resignation that's been erased one too many times, and baekhyun thinks that in another life his mother might have been an artwork too. not as complex or as convoluted as he is, but still a piece of beauty meant to be in the spotlight.

"let's go."

they board a sleek black car that baekhyun's father has somehow gotten his hands on, and the three of them listen to his father's hopes and dreams filling up the space. baekhyun thinks it's unfair to rob others of their own wishes but he keeps his mouth shut -- artwork is seen and not heard, as his father reminds him whenever baekhyun unzips his lips. so he sits in the car and tunes everything else out, and he dreams of a world where his body is his own.

the car stops in front of a huge building, and his father brings them to a hallway of offices at the back. baekhyun is shoved into a gilded box with a gilded chair, and there are bars for air but not for _breathing_. baekhyun feels choked. he looks at his mother and she looks back with helplessness, and baekhyun sits on the chair as the box is shut on his face.

"i'll just go to the organizer of the auction," his father chirps, and baekhyun hears his fading footsteps. he counts to 20 and stops, and he leans his head against the right wall of the box because this is too much. he can't cry, though, he has to be beautiful. he has to be _his father's fucking masterpiece_. it's sick and his insides twist, but baekhyun has relinquished control all those years ago, and he can only watch those opportunities for dissent float by with a tinge of bitterness.

"baekhyunnie," his mother whispers through the bars. it starts out weak, but then the syllables grow stronger, and baekhyun hears the tempered steel somewhere beneath the debris of her crushed hopes. "baekhyunnie, i can't let him do this to you. _i can't_."

baekhyun swallows the acid rising in his throat, and he struggles against the waves of hope flooding his senses. "we can't do anything. he'll be back to auction me off, and then you guys can live better."

"but i can't live better if i let him do this to you," his mother says. "i'm getting you out."

baekhyun's heart stops. "umma. umma, he'll hurt you --"

"he's hurt me so many times before that the only fate worse than that is death." baekhyun hears her rattling the locks and pounding the door of the box. "i should have run away with you a long time ago."

"you couldn't have --"

"i could, but i was too much of a coward." there is a pause. "i'm sorry, baekhyunnie." then the box is open entirely and baekhyun envelops his mother in what he knows is their last embrace.

"go," she whispers into his ear, and baekhyun is reminded that his father will come back anytime soon. "go."

and he wants to take her with him but they both know she can't keep up, and she looks at him with so much pride and love in her eyes that baekhyun wishes they'd had a better destiny. when he leaves he sees the silhouette of a woman who's given up everything she's ever had. then he hears the far-off echo of his father's shoes scraping against the ground, and he runs down the hallways without looking back.

he has to face the world on his own.

 

 

 

 

three weeks later, baekhyun is an unidentified coordinate on the map and he finds it ironic how the north star is located on his right shoulder blade but he can't figure out where he's going. aimless walking leads you nowhere, and dirt paths and strangers can only offer you directions to a place but not to a _home_. and baekhyun is reminded that he has no destination in mind, that he only wants to be _far enough_ , and right now he doesn't know if he's reached _far enough_ yet.

he's been living in dead alleys where people are shapeless forms passing by, and he's tried his hand at acting pitiful enough to beg for money and food. on his third night of running it rains, and the make-up smears only serve to make him look more homeless and unfortunate. he gets coins that he spends on a piece of bread, and he drinks from water fountains when there is one in the area.

but there comes a day when baekhyun thinks too much of his mother and her boiled cabbage soup, and as the memories surface his sadness threatens to burst out of him. so he spills it out on a song that they'd used to sing together, and people gather around to listen -- maybe because they've heard the song before, maybe because this homeless boy's voice reminds them of meaningful things they'd shared with other people. he receives coins again, but when baekhyun checks his tin can he sees a number of bills pushed into it, and he takes them out with no small amount of wonder. he almost doesn't notice the lanky blonde guy walking up to him.

"you sing well."

baekhyun looks up at the guy and his first thought is _he's tall_. he blinks and tries for a smile. "thank you."

the guy shifts from foot to foot and clears his throat. "so i was wondering...would you like to have a job?"

baekhyun stares at him. "i'm a homeless guy."

the guy smiles. "i'm sehun."

baekhyun thinks the guy must be disconnected from the world. it's really the only explanation for how weird his responses are. "uh, my name's baekhyun?"

sehun laughs, then he sobers up and sticks his hands into his pockets. "it's just that i have this feeling that you shouldn't be living on the streets like this, and you seem like a good guy."

"i could knife you right now, you know," baekhyun says.

"but you won't," sehun says, and he sounds so sure that baekhyun is taken aback. "see, i have this cousin who's a painter --"

"painter?" baekhyun repeats, his pulse thudding too loud in his ears.

"yeah. and he's been lacking inspiration for some time now, and you seem like the perfect model for him to start over with," sehun continues, not noticing baekhyun's discomfort.

"i...thanks for the offer, but i can't do it," baekhyun says. _painting. art._ he knows that maybe it's irrational to think that sehun's cousin is anything like his father, but baekhyun doesn't want to risk it. it's too close to the world he's just left.

"you'll have food and a place to live, and when a piece sells you'll be paid as well," sehun tells him with a coaxing tone. "c'mon. i don't really know what i'm doing, either, but you look like a good kid and my cousin needs a model. it's hitting two birds with one stone."

baekhyun wants to say no. he wants to refuse, but there is something in sehun's eyes that makes him want to try, something in the promise of maybe having the closest thing to home, something about seeing art with new eyes and not getting destroyed for its sake.

"please," sehun says softly, and that's what jolts baekhyun. no one has ever talked to him that softly or treated him that kindly. "please give it a chance."

baekhyun accepts.

 

 

 

 

sehun takes his hand and teaches him how to make his way through the town. it's clear that sehun loves this place, and it's clear how he enjoys sharing what he knows with someone else. he treats baekhyun to lunch at a cafe and baekhyun has his first sip of coffee, and sehun roars with laughter when baekhyun makes a face at the unexpected bitterness of the brew. they get ice cream right after and play on the swings for a while, but soon they end up in front of an imposing red-brick building and baekhyun feels so small.

he looks up at the time-worn facade and ignores the image of a shanty at the edges of civilization, and he wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to drive off the sudden chill he's feeling. "is this your house?"

"hmm, you can say that." sehun doesn't elaborate, he just pushes open the door. after a beat, baekhyun follows. he tries to be suspicious but he's been through too much to suspect things at this stage, and he decides that he'll just take anything in stride.

they enter what looks like a lobby, and baekhyun looks up at the chandelier that's suspended above his head. sehun tugs on his hand and baekhyun tries to keep up. it's a tangled mess of lefts and rights that baekhyun can't remember, and soon they end up in front of a door with a bronze 7 tacked on it.

"this building isn't really a house, it's more of an apartment complex," sehun says, letting go of baekhyun's hand. "my cousin's grandfather owns it. he doesn't need profit, though, since he has a lot of properties, so anyone is free to take up any of the rooms as long as there's still space. there's an empty room adjoining my cousin's room right now, so you can stay there. and every day the caretaker of the apartment serves meals at the dining room downstairs, so you won't have to worry about food."

baekhyun takes a deep breath and tries to uncover some nefarious plot within sehun's words. he looks at sehun's eyes and sees only sincerity. "i...thank you so much."

sehun beams. "it's really no problem," he insists, and then he knocks on the door in front of them. "jongin. jongin, open up!"

a few seconds pass without anything happening. sehun curses under his breath. "idiot must have fallen asleep," he mutters as he produces a ring of keys and unlocks the door.

it's the combined aroma of oil, dried-up paint, alcohol and stale air that hits baekhyun, and for a second he's tempted to run out of the place. but sehun looks at him expectantly and he reminds himself that this isn't his father's work room and no one is about to make _him_ a painting, and he steps inside.

it's dark, dirty and disorganized. baekhyun stumbles on a few tubes and tools lying around, and he nearly topples over a line of cloth-covered silhouettes that he guesses are canvases. he can hear sehun insulting his cousin in faint murmurs, and once or twice sehun trips on a stray bottle. it takes some time before he finds the switches and turns on the lights.

on the kitchen table is a myriad ramyun packs and empty energy drink cans. the room is a mess of colors, red and purple and green bleeding into an unattractive gradient, and baekhyun sees that there are no paintings on display.

"where is he?" sehun mutters.

"maybe he went out?" baekhyun suggests, watching sehun make his way gingerly across the room.

"no, he leaves a note on his door whenever he goes out." sehun nudges a bundle of cloths lying on the floor. then he drops to his knees and begins unrolling the bundle, and baekhyun steps back, not certain if he's supposed to help. "the idiot actually fell asleep on the floor. wake up, jongin!"

jongin turns out to be another lanky guy who's maybe the same age as sehun and is a few shades darker, and it seems like he doesn't care about appearances. he's dressed in a shirt that looks like it's seen too many paint balloon wars, and pants that are ragged and torn and perhaps a few sizes too big. jongin's eyes don't flutter open even when sehun rolls him back and forth. finally sehun gets up and fetches a glass of water, and he proceeds to pour it on jongin's face.

jongin slowly opens his eyes, not even fazed. baekhyun thinks he's pretty -- jongin and sehun are pretty. they're the kind of people who are physically appealing because of their proportional features, and baekhyun thinks of his ruined skin and his uneven eyes and he wishes he can be beautiful in a different way.

"what are you doing?" jongin says, his tone groggy and sour.

"good morning to you too," sehun says, extricating himself from the tangle of limbs that is his cousin. "i brought you a model."

there's a moment where the air is static and sehun places the glass on the kitchen sink, and baekhyun tries to be anywhere but within jongin's line of sight. then jongin sits up and his skin is flushed, his clothes are rumpled and his hair's sticking up, but baekhyun can read the fury settling on the artist's spine. "what?" jongin says, and there is a sharpness to it that has baekhyun recalling his father's laughter, and he freezes up. maybe this isn't a good idea, after all.

sehun turns around and the open expression on his face is gone. now he's wearing a blank mask that looks foreign and unnatural. "i said, i brought you a model."

"i don't need a model," jongin snaps.

baekhyun looks at sehun then slides his gaze over to the door. sehun gives him an infinitesimal shake of his head.

"yes, you do," sehun says. "and now you have one."

jongin glowers at him. "stop dictating every single fucking thing i do --"

"i never have and i never will, jongin," sehun interrupts him. "but you and i know that you need a new model, and i've found one." he glances at baekhyun and jongin follows his gaze.

jongin's eyes are too dark, like they're black holes taking in everything that comes near. baekhyun avoids the weight of his stare by looking at a little tuft poking out of jongin's hair. it's unsettling to be examined like that, and baekhyun is conscious of the fact that he's worn the same clothes for three weeks and his last shower was at a gasoline station he'd passed by yesterday, and he tries not to let his insecurity show.

"how old are you?" jongin asks. his tone is calmer this time but baekhyun still detects an undercurrent of anger.

"16," baekhyun says, trying not to appear even smaller.

"he's so young," jongin accuses sehun.

"he still makes for a good subject," sehun counters. baekhyun wants to ask him, _how_? baekhyun is never the subject or the reference. he is the canvas, the blank page, the submissive clay. he is the _medium_ , meant only to accentuate the main attraction.

jongin falls silent, and baekhyun just wants to step out of this room. he knows he's not wanted. he knows sehun has good intentions, but baekhyun does not belong here.

"he seems like he can portray emotion well," jongin says, almost thoughtful, and baekhyun glances at him. jongin is looking at sehun, though, his eyebrows creased. "i still don't like your presumptuousness, though."

"i'm glad you've come to your senses," sehun says wryly.

"can you undress?" jongin asks baekhyun, and there's no malice in the question but baekhyun panics. sehun never said anything about baekhyun modeling in the _nude_.

sehun clears his throat. "um, maybe you should start with portraits first. it's too early to start the nude modeling."

"but all of my subjects have been nude so far --"

"you can try something new then," sehun says. "at least you can get to know baekhyun better before you ask him to undress for your paintings."

jongin looks like he's about to jump out of his skin and tear sehun to pieces, but he does an impressive job of keeping himself together. "fine," he says. "fine."

"i'll leave you two, then," sehun says with a brightness that seems out of place. "i'll see you later, baekhyun." the door shuts closed behind him.

jongin stands up. "i'll show you to your room." he makes a path through the sea of his art materials, and baekhyun takes care not to step on anything important. there is another door concealed by heavy green draperies that jongin pushes aside with what sounds like _fucking oh sehun_.

the room isn't as gloomy as jongin's studio. in fact it's airy and well-lit, and there are two huge windows set on the wall that the bed is pushed up against. there is a closet and a table that baekhyun thinks he doesn't really need, and the room even has its own bathroom. but what catches baekhyun's attention is the mural on the wall.

it's a sepia-toned city caught in the first few hours of waking, and the buildings rise up with a multi-dimensionality that has baekhyun questioning if it's an image or the real thing. there are people going to work and driving cars, and roads that intersect each other, and skies washed over by a shade caught in between orange and yellow. it's an amazing depiction of a city coming back to life in the morning, and baekhyun can see how every little detail tells a story.

"did you paint that?" he asks, turning to jongin.

jongin's eyes darken just a little, and his hands ball into fists. baekhyun takes a step back, realizing that it's most probably a sensitive question. "no."

and baekhyun wants to ask more, he wants to ask _who_ and _why_ and _how_ , but the words get stuck in his vocal chords because jongin walks away. baekhyun walks to the painted city and runs his fingers over the bumps and ridges of the wall, and he thinks that people hide behind the intensity of emotions because sometimes it's difficult to let people know what you truly feel.

he's not any different.

 

 

 

 

as the days pass, jongin remains as cold as ever. baekhyun has seen the paintings behind the cloth covers and he thinks that the guy is brilliant at what he does, but he's also a failure at dealing with people. he ponders how jongin can capture the essence of a person without even communicating with him, and how jongin can translate an entire story into an image that speaks to anyone who sees it.

modeling for jongin is easy, because jongin isn't demanding. that's one good thing about him at least. there is an unspoken agreement between them that at five in the afternoon, baekhyun will walk into jongin's studio and do whatever he wants to do. sometimes he does serious poses that he holds for long amounts of time, just to see if he's up to it; sometimes he plays around and traces things in the air. when jongin stands up and rolls the paper, baekhyun knows the session is over, and he leaves. he wonders what he looks like in jongin's daily sketches, and he wonders what jongin does to those rolled-up sheets of paper.

he wonders about the models jongin's had before him.

the paintings in jongin's studio right now are of landscapes and objects, and though they're rendered so well, baekhyun can tell that they're lifeless. they don't tell him anything. they are inanimate and pretty and technically unimpeachable, but they don't tug at his attention.

he knows jongin used to paint portraits, specifically those of the person who came before baekhyun. he knows, because he overhears sehun and jongin talking when they think he's asleep.

"how is baekhyun as a model?" sehun asks.

"he's good."

"i can hear a _but_ in your answer."

"there's none."

"he's not kyungsoo, jongin."

"i know he's not. it's just..."

"he reminds you sometimes, doesn't he?"

"...they don't even look alike. but they're both short and small and they look like they weigh like feathers floating in the air, and they're both so expressive."

"jongin, i know you haven't gotten over that --"

"i know, i know. i can't help it if i see similarities, though."

"baekhyun is a different person. there's a story in there somewhere."

a sigh. "i see that every day, sehun, thanks."

"do you know it yet?"

"no."

"hmm. then you can't ask him to model naked for you."

"i feel like his story is tied to that, actually. i don't know why. maybe he has a scar, somewhere, and he's afraid to show it...kyungsoo used to have a birthmark, do you remember?"

"jongin."

"i'd tease him about it and he'd turn red all over. he liked seeing butterflies fly in through the window, he liked cooking, he'd scold me when i didn't clean up but i'd always ignore him."

" _jongin_."

"and he told me wanted to fly, he asked you to teach him how to dance, he asked me if rainbows could be stuffed into jars so that we'd have every hue and shade imaginable. do you remember, sehun? do you remember?"

"jongin, stop."

"and we used to watch movies together. he liked pororo so much we'd just watch it for hours on end. and he'd sing me to sleep sometimes --"

"kyungsoo is gone, jongin."

baekhyun inhales. he tries to slow down his breathing because he can't give himself away, not now. he hears a crack resound throughout the room, hears jongin's desperate _shut up_ , hears sehun's gasp of pain.

"i know." it's jongin's only reply, and he sounds like he's breaking.

"you have to move on," sehun says.

"what if i don't want to?"

and the door slams and there's a sigh, and baekhyun can feel sehun checking up on him. when he's satsified that baekhyun's still asleep, he leaves the studio as well.

baekhyun opens his eyes and stares at the city on the wall, wondering if kyungsoo had been the one to paint it. then he rolls over to face the window, thoughts of _not enough_ flooding his mind, and he wills himself to sleep because he can't deal with this knowledge right now.

he wonders if kyungsoo had been jongin's lover.

 

 

 

 

"do you paint people?"

jongin looks up. baekhyun continues drawing a face in the air.

"i'm sketching you. what do you think?"

baekhyun hums. "i never see you do any portraits, that's all."

"that's because i'm known for painting nudes. it's my technique."

baekhyun raises his head to look at him. he's headed for a crash, he knows he is, but he presses on anyway. "so your past models went nude, just like that?"

"model," jongin corrects, almost mindlessly. "i only had one model. and yes, he did."

baekhyun can see jongin's knuckles whiten as he grips the pencil too hard. but it's like he can't stop, the syllables falling past his lips before he can stop them. "was he the one who made the city on my bedroom wall?"

jongin stops. silence is fascinating, baekhyun thinks. there's so much you can hold within it. there's so much you can say that is not quite said. there are too many meanings floating around, and sometimes you get things wrong. he feels like he's just crossed the line between casual inquiry and invasion, and he blames it on the curiosity bubbling in the corners of his mind.

he waits for the blow to fall. he waits for jongin to end the session like he always does when baekhyun starts asking.

neither happens.

jongin's shoulders tense and he continues to draw. "yes."

and baekhyun must be insane, but he wants to see how far he can push jongin. he wants to see just how deeply ingrained the specter of kyungsoo is in these four walls, and he wonders just how much of kyungsoo has been threaded through jongin's existence.

"what was he like?"

jongin freezes. when you put water in the freezer you can't tell the exact moment it turns to ice, but baekhyun likes to think it's as sudden as jongin's reaction. you build up to it until it just happens, like a crescendo in a musical symphony.

he wonders what jongin is like when he's really, really mad.

jongin puts down his pencil. it's almost like baekhyun's watching a drowning man swim to shore, and it's a slow and painful process, and he's not sure what the outcome will be. but jongin doesn't explode. instead he swallows then walks towards the canvases lining the wall, and he takes out a small canvas at the very back. he gives it to baekhyun and baekhyun is almost afraid to remove the cover. this is a portrait that has outlived its subject.

he glances at jongin and jongin nods. baekhyun hesitates for a second, then he pulls away the cloth cover.

it's the picture of man curled up in white sheets, and baekhyun is reminded vaguely of an angel. he can feel the dreaminess of the entire image, the need to appear innocent and normal yet faintly suggestive, but baekhyun's eyes are drawn to how the man doesn't seem to be seeing anything. this is the story of someone who has caged himself by his own terms.

"his name is kyungsoo." jongin's words come out a little strangled, a little like he doesn't want to say them but he does. "he was...he was my best friend."

and baekhyun has to ask: "did you love him?"

jongin closes his eyes. it feels like everything is suspended, like even the wind is waiting for his answer.

"i don't know."

 

 

 

 

sometimes baekhyun has nightmares that scream in his head and squeeze his chest, and he wakes up with a heart that's beating too loud and a nervousness that makes him want to shed off his skin and climb up to the skies where he'll be safe. once or twice he dreams about kicking off his shoes and jumping out the window because flying is more thrilling when you know you'll fall anyway, and once he's lucid he restrains himself from opening the window.

he tries to see the city on the wall the way that kyungsoo must have seen it, but he can't tell if it's a product of imagination or of boredom. there's something about the washed-out quality that makes him think someone's been trying to take it down, and baekhyun's not pointing any fingers but jongin seems like the only plausible option.

they don't talk anymore about kyungsoo.

there are moments when baekhyun wants to ask what really happened to kyungsoo, but the frown on jongin's face as he works is enough to stop him. somehow they've woven a thin thread of understanding between themselves, and baekhyun doesn't want to snap it in half yet.

it's a rainy monday and baekhyun wants to stand out there in the downpour. he wants to know where his mother is, if she's okay; where his father is, and if he's still finding him. he recalls shivering nights and hard floors, and baekhyun wants something, anything to distract him from the memories growing so vivid in his head.

"do you think you can model naked tomorrow?"

baekhyun's head snaps back up. he thinks of the scars and the hues embedded into his skin, and he feels his throat dry up. "i...can't."

jongin levels a gaze at him. "if you think this is a fetish of mine, it's not."

baekhyun laughs nervously. "it's not that."

"why do you people have so many insecurities?" jongin murmurs. "it's like you insist on seeing only the flaws when there is so much more than that."

baekhyun flushes.

this is one of those times when baekhyun wishes he knows jongin more. he wants to plumb his mind and extract his thoughts. he wants to know what jongin is thinking when he bursts into baekhyun's room at midnight because of baekhyun's screams, or when he swats baekhyun's hands away from his sketches because baekhyun is beautiful, or when jongin takes him out shopping because baekhyun doesn't have enough clothes.

baekhyun thinks he falls a little more in love with the other boy, but whenever he's so close to admitting it he remembers kyungsoo. he wonders just how much space kyungsoo takes up in jongin's heart and if he's left a void; and if so, can baekhyun fill it back up to overflowing?

and he thinks of the painting that threatens to swallow his body whole, and he remembers kyungsoo's pure white skin against the sheets. how can he live up to that?

jongin is an enigma, a mystery you grow fond of, and baekhyun has always been teetering on the edge since day one. now that they're bathed in fluorescence and honesty, he realizes that maybe love takes over even when you don't speak, but at this moment it's a language only he understands.

jongin pushes aside his easel. "let's go."

baekhyun is shaken from his reverie. "go where?"

"out."

"but it's raining," baekhyun says, feeling a little uncertain.

"i have an umbrella," jongin says.

and baekhyun thinks the idea is absurd, but he wants to feel the rain on his skin. he scrambles for his shoes.

the skies lighten up a little and the downpour becomes more manageable, and baekhyun resists the urge to jump into puddles. he and jongin talk about mundane things, little tidbits of daily life that people often discuss, and he inhales the new scents rising up from the ground.

a car nearly swerves into baekhyun and jongin pulls him close immediately. baekhyun can feel the electric thrum between their bodies, and he thinks about letting himself fall, and he shakes his head at the thought. then he notices that the car has stopped in front of them.

his senses are screaming at him to run.

the car door opens and baekhyun forgets who he is, forgets who he's with, because that's his father getting out of the car. "appa," he whispers -- in horror or in fear, he doesn't know which.

jongin goes rigid beside him.

"baekhyunnie!" his father says, and he sounds enthusiastic but there's a cruel gleam in his eyes. "i've been looking all over for you."

"baekhyun," jongin murmurs into his ear, "is he really your father?"

baekhyun can't lie. "yes."

"i won't be asking you any questions, young man," baekhyun's father says, squinting at jongin. "i just want my baekhyunnie back."

and baekhyun wants jongin to refuse, he wants to turn around and run run run _run_ , he wants to get away from sick lies and pain and hands of torture. but he bites down hard on his lip because he knows what his father is capable of.

"i found him on the streets," jongin says.

"yes, yes, we had a little misunderstanding."

baekhyun is at a dead-end now. his father's hand clamps down on his arm and he tugs him roughly from jongin's grasp. jongin's eyes are windows with their shutters closed.

"jongin," baekhyun says, and he wonders if jongin can hear his plea, if jongin can hear the _save me_ , if jongin can see he doesn't want to go.

he doesn't want to be a _masterpiece_ again.

as the car drives away, baekhyun wonders if jongin would have fought harder if he were kyungsoo and not baekhyun.


	2. Chapter 2

 

he's in a hotel room this time, drowning in luxury and fluffy comforters and plush carpets, and baekhyun imagines himself sinking into the mattress and disappearing amongst the folds. his father doesn't raise a hand against him because he's too hell-bent on making sure every part of his masterpiece is alright. baekhyun is made to undress in the air-conditioned room, and he's examined from every angle as his father tries to detect anything wrong in the carved lines on his body. when he's satisfied he throws a bathrobe at baekhyun and tells him to clean up.

baekhyun doesn't ask about his mother. he holds on tightly to the image of a woman's silhouette against the window of a setting sun, and he thinks that bright orange bleeds too fast into red. in his mind his mother is fine and safe, cocooned in their little shanty, wrapped in contentment if not freedom.

men in suits enter and exit the room, and baekhyun watches from his position on the bed. his father hasn't given him any instructions, hasn't told him what to do yet, so he observes his surroundings and thinks of the reasons why a hotel room is just another velveteen prison. he watches the men and he wonders who his father's partner in this is. what must have they told the bidders? what do they expect to show at the auction? baekhyun's eyes roam over the scars on his body and he wonders if he's expected to sit there, immobile and stark naked, while people decide if they want to buy him or not.

if he had chosen to show jongin the marks on his body, would the painter have understood? there are a thousand different ways to show pain, but baekhyun's method would have been simply taking off his clothes for people to see the horror beneath the ingenuity. how do you explain that you have the universe carved into your flesh, and how do you tell people it hadn't hurt when baekhyun's terrified shrieks had filled the house to brimming? he closes his eyes and thinks that stars are meant to be counted when they're up in the skies and not on a 16-year-old's body.

a few hours on and a retinue of stylists enter the room. his father tells them how baekhyun must look like: pretty with a touch of darkness, as unreachable as the universe. then he leaves the stylists to work their magic, calling up various people on his phone. _an objet d'art_ , baekhyun muses. it's funny how something as animated as a human being is expected to become inanimate for the sake of public consumption. 

the stylists fuss over him, and in a matter of minutes baekhyun is washed and dressed. his clothes are strips of leather that allow hints of the design on baekhyun's body to peek through, and everything is so tight that baekhyun feels like he's chasing after every inhale and exhale. he hears a stylist say "how did he do this?" with something like awe, and baekhyun lets a polite smile slide through his lips but not an answer. these are people who are trained to see the flaws and make them appear perfect, and he can't trust them enough to tell them that those are scars, that he's a patchwork of hurt and frustration and desperation. they baptize his hair with hairspray and they pile on so much make-up, and in the mirror baekhyun can't recognize himself.

somehow he feels like he's part of the audience, watching the spectacle play itself out. he's out of this room and these clothes; he's numb, floating in subconsciousness and maybe a bit of obedience. baekhyun is taken to a stage still hidden behind miles of red velvet curtains, and he realizes that he's entering a box again. it's a glass box this time, and his seat is glass as well. he sits down, wondering if it will hold his weight, and it does. the stylists prop him up and drape strings of lights over his legs and arms, and baekhyun thinks he looks ridiculous.

but then shows are not meant to be realistic. they are meant to be exaggerated, to capture people's attention, and the lights encircling his limbs aren't so far-fetched. the stylists touch him up one last time, and then they step out and slide the front panel closed. somewhere inside the box baekhyun hears a hiss, and then there's an abundance of air filtering through, and baekhyun breathes it in but he doesn't live.

he's a living painting, supposedly, but he can't live. he simply exists.

he tunes everything out. he's deaf to the roars of the crowd and the announcements of what sounds like the emcee, and he thinks of forgotten lullabies and rain-soaked melodies that remind him far too much of everything he could have had. he thinks of jongin in the wreckage of his studio, an artist so different from baekhyun's father, and he thinks of the fields of pinks and whites and greens. baekhyun remembers jongin's shy smile that baekhyun had tried not to notice, and he reminisces about that one time he'd gotten cuts on his hands and jongin had stopped the bleeding, had wrapped his fingers in bandages, had told baekhyun to _be careful_. and he realizes that jongin cares in the silence, and jongin watches over him in every pause between sentences, and jongin is too focused on the details to ever let baekhyun's melancholy slip past his attention. 

baekhyun thinks of the faded city on the wall and how jongin must have tried to eradicate the memory of kyungsoo. but ghosts linger in ways that the living cannot hope to suppress, and baekhyun wonders how much of an imprint he's left in that studio. jongin is walled in by the stories he tries to interpret through art, and baekhyun thinks that for someone caught up in the vestiges of the past, jongin's doing a good job at staying alive in the present. 

baekhyun muses over what kind of story he must have left behind, what tales he must have told in jongin's daily sketches of him, and if jongin had captured the glimpses of the real baekhyun through the cracks in baekhyun's shell.

the velvet curtains part and baekhyun sees endless rows of people watching him. they're drinking fine wines but their eyes are unclouded, and baekhyun knows they're looking for something valuable enough to be the new centerpiece of their art collections. baekhyun doesn't want to gather dust in a corner of a mansion; he wants to run free through the grass, he wants to have unmarked skin, he wants to know who jongin is in another time and place.

he watches the bidding start, watches people shout out numbers and raise their paddles, watches people's competitiveness jump out like unrestrained animals prowling the room for prey. he blocks out all the sound, and in this mute farce he vaguely registers that he's being sold for hundreds of millions of dollars.

there are people on the streets who are sold for far less, people who are taken advantage of and fought over in terms of petty change. baekhyun thinks that everything's so twisted that paintings are more expensive than human beings, and he thinks his true worth must be much, much lower if he doesn't wear the universe on his skin. 

this is how much he costs. this is what he is reduced to.

he sees his father beaming from his seat in front of the stage. 

the front panel of the box slides open. baekhyun stands up, uncertain, and the emcee escorts him to the winning bidder. it's a tall man in a dark suit, his face covered by a mask, and baekhyun thinks that if deception is his new owner then they'll have something in common. the tall man grips his arm, and he doesn't stay for the next exhibits. baekhyun is led through the tables, and he tries not to mind the way people's eyes slide critically over the slits in his clothes, wondering about the extent of the art that's become a part of him.

the two of them end up in a car and baekhyun wants to ask if he'll be put in a box, but the man just tells his chauffeur to drive home. it's dark now, street lamps flickering by the road, and baekhyun settles deep into the leather. 

"are you alright?"

and the voice is familiar, the blood is roaring in baekhyun's ears, and he turns to see that the man has taken off his face mask.

it's sehun.

 

 

hours later and they're sitting in sehun's room, sipping cups of tea that sehun says is good for calming people. baekhyun's mind whirls and spins and he's a little dizzy; he doesn't know how to feel, how to react, but all he knows is he's back in the red-brick building and it doesn't look like sehun's going to put him on display anytime soon.

they make small talk about the unpredictable weather and clothes that need washing, and baekhyun catches sight of his reflection. he still looks the same, like a fragile porcelain figurine that can fall over any second, but he wonders why he seems to suit this image better than being surrounded in velvet and similar pretty things. 

he and sehun tiptoe around the topic of jongin, but there's this question in baekhyun's mind that persists against the back of his skull: does jongin have a new model? it's been a week since baekhyun's last seen him against a backdrop of pouring rain and furious wind, jongin's raincoat-swathed figure framed in the tinted car window, until the streaks of water and fog had brought down the visibility to zero.

"are you hungry?" sehun asks, putting down his cup. baekhyun looks down at his mostly untouched tea and tries to think of how he can tell sehun that his stomach is empty but he's not hungry -- that he wants permanence and stability and maybe a real family, and those are things that neither sehun and jongin can give him. and then he remembers that he's worth _hundreds of millions of dollars_ , and he looks at sehun and tries to understand how a person can be so kind that he'll buy something that's probably not worth anything at this point.

"no," baekhyun says, shaking his head. "but i do have a question."

sehun leans against the sofa and crosses his arms. "what is it?"

baekhyun takes a deep breath. "why did you pay that much money for me?"

"i didn't."

baekhyun blinks. "what? but you were bidding --"

"i was bidding, but not using my own money," sehun explains. "i mean, i would have but i'm not that loaded with cash, so i wouldn't have won."

there are so many possibilities, so many existing iterations, so many thoughts that pierce through baekhyun's mind and he's feeling dizzy again. "then who --"

"jongin," sehun says, and just like that baekhyun feels a wave of calm settle over him. it's the kind of calm that says _oh_. it's the kind of calm that comes because there's nothing else to say or think or do, and you just accept it because it's not bad and it's not good, it's just sort of cleanly in the middle.

"even if he looks like he should be a hobo, jongin's pretty rich, you see," sehun continues. "he has an inheritance and his artworks sell really well. he can afford to spend five hundred million dollars."

"five hundred million dollars," baekhyun repeats. he raises his eyes to meet sehun's, and his shoulders almost shake in relief when he doesn't see pity, only warmth. "is that how much i cost?"

"yes," sehun says. "but you're a person, baekhyun. you're worth so much more than that. you're priceless."

baekhyun believes in a lot of things. he believes that when he dies he'll turn into a butterfly, that the world is both cruel and amazing, that there are pockets of gorgeousness at every turn in the road. he believes that there are different sides to people, that the skies are happy when everyone is happy, that 16-year-old byun baekhyun is a living painting and he's meant to be sold and possessed and displayed.

but right now he's thinking of believing that 16-year-old byun baekhyun can be human as well.

sehun rises and extends a hand to help baekhyun up. "let's go see jongin."

 

 

they're standing in front of door number 7 again, and baekhyun feels something like anticipation jumping around and causing chaos in his stomach. he's jittery, his palms are sweaty, and he knows he's unrecognizable like this. he's wearing too much leather and make-up and gel, and he's practically a study in all the pretenses of art.

sehun knocks. this time they don't wait too long for the door to open, and jongin is in front of them with bleary eyes and an expression that looks like hope, and baekhyun wants to see the city on the wall again. 

"baekhyun?" jongin says, and his voice sounds rusty. his shoulders sag and he opens the door wider, and sehun and baekhyun enter the studio.

it's still a mess. it's still a jumble of unwashed paint brushes and bottles of linseed oil and torn-up sketchbooks and bitten pencils, but baekhyun feels comfortable here. this is the closest thing he has to a _home_ , and it has a lot to do with how he's come to terms with himself within the walls of this room.

maybe his reasons also include a sleepy boy who wears oversized painting smocks to sleep, and who wakes up with too much blue in his hair and a paintbrush in his hand, and who holds too many secrets that baekhyun sometimes unravels when they talk while baekhyun models and jongin draws.

jongin coughs. "i can clear the kitchen table."

"oh, don't bother," sehun chirps. "i'm only dropping baekhyun off."

"you're not staying?" jongin asks, and baekhyun can see a flash of panic cross his face.

"i didn't know you missed me that much, cousin," sehun teases, but before jongin can so much as respond, he's out the door.

sehun does that a lot, baekhyun realizes. he coaxes people to start doing what they're afraid of doing, and then he bows out so they can face it on their own. baekhyun thinks that sehun is sort of like a guardian, and he probably knows more than he lets on. 

jongin turns to baekhyun. "did you have a smooth trip?" he asks, and baekhyun knows they're playing the _talk about casual stuff_ game again. 

"yes, it wasn't that far."

they know what _it_ is. they know where baekhyun's been, who -- or what -- baekhyun is, and they know that they know these things but no one's saying anything. no one ever starts this conversation. it's almost like they're in the ring and they're told to fight, but they're forever just circling each other and making no move.

"he was your father," jongin says, and his eyes are black holes again and they're sucking baekhyun in. he recognizes this line for what it is: an opening to an explanation, a prelude to an apology. jongin has paid five hundred million dollars for baekhyun and it's not his fault that baekhyun's mutilated body is considered a piece of _fucking art_ , and he really doesn't need to do this. but there is a determined set to jongin's lips, and he looks like he's choosing his words carefully, and so baekhyun listens because jongin just wants so badly to say this and it's a novelty because jongin rarely speaks his mind. 

"he was your father," jongin says again, "and sehun found you on the streets, and i never really knew what your story was. and i let you go because i didn't want to do the wrong thing again, i didn't want to keep someone from leaving when they should have."

jongin walks over to the canvases and he brings out that painting of kyungsoo wrapped in white sheets. "that's what i did to kyungsoo, baekhyun," he says, and baekhyun hears his voice catch. a tear slides down jongin's cheek. "all along, i didn't know. i didn't know."

it's the question rising up to swallow them whole, and this time baekhyun can ask it. this time there's an answer. he waits for a second, then another, before taking the plunge. "what happened?"

jongin's hand caresses kyungsoo's portrait. when he speaks, his voice is low. "at age ten, kyungsoo was an orphan. he used to smile a lot, he used to be sunshine, but back then all that the kids could see was that he had no family and he was alone, and no matter how kind kyungsoo was to them they continued to torture him. we became friends because his aunt adopted him, and they transferred to the house next to ours.

"when i met him he was still optimistic, but i think he grew afraid of people shunning him because of his status. i tried to tell him it was alright, that it didn't matter, that it didn't make him less of a person. and he would smile at me, but somewhere along the way he'd stopped believing, and there was nothing i could do to change that.

"he stuck by my side and was pleasant to my friends, but kyungsoo never really opened up. when we graduated from high school and i decided to pursue my art, he readily agreed to become my model."

jongin pauses. baekhyun realizes he's never asked how old jongin is, and he's never delved into the minute details of jongin's identity. 

"that was two years ago. so kyungsoo modeled for me and i had an entire collection of him alone, a collection that won several awards and were bought at high prices. but gradually kyungsoo grew afraid of facing the media -- of revealing who he was, of receiving the same ridicule for being an orphan. i tried to coax him out but he told me he felt safer here, that it was better here.

"and i was selfish. all i could think of was my art. all i could think of was keeping kyungsoo with me. so i let it happen, i let him isolate himself, to the point that i never saw the walls he'd put up until they were towering over our heads and i couldn't break through.

"i was so happy when he decided to go out. but halfway out the building he turned around, saying he couldn't do it. instead of encouraging him to face his fears, i let him drown in them. that was when he asked if he could borrow my materials, and he painted that city on the wall so he'd never be tempted to go outside, and he never had to expend any effort to imagine what the world was like."

that city on the wall. kyungsoo's portrait. it's an imprisonment within the boundaries of art, and baekhyun thinks kyungsoo had tried to stretch and stretch the limits of creativity into somehow imitating reality. but he'd probably been driven crazy, had probably battled with himself over going out, had probably been visited by the demons whispering of a liberation he'd never get.

jongin sets down the painting and looks at baekhyun. it's a deadlock gaze, the kind where lines of vision intersect and they don't waver, they just stay. "eight months ago, i arrived home just in time to see him walk out of the window and fall straight down below. he didn't leave a note." jongin shivers, and baekhyun wants to offer him comfort somehow -- he wants to tell him to stop blaming himself, he wants to tell him that it's all in the past. but baekhyun gets this feeling he would have walked out the window too, and he knows that innocence fades once you see your very first picture of death, and jongin has never quite forgotten that picture yet. he's never quite let go of that moment when kyungsoo had launched himself into the air -- and baekhyun can see it, he can see it because he sleeps beside that very window and he thinks about falling out of there sometimes -- in an attempt to return to the outside world without staying very long.

"and that's why. that's why i let you go, because i didn't want to lock you in where i thought you'd be safe. i've learned that the safest places are often the most dangerous, because that's where you lower your guard. but," and jongin's eyes seem to possess a kind of fire, one that burns bright and intense, "i realized that no father would sell his son, and that i may have known you for so short a time but you don't deserve to be treated like an object. no one does."

baekhyun decides then. he decides to shed off the last piece of armor he has left; to unchain his heart and maybe start accepting who he is and all that's happened to him. "do you know why he sold me?"

jongin hesitates. "i heard that it's because you're a living painting," he whispers, and his answer seems to quiver in the space all around them. it's waiting for baekhyun's judgment, and baekhyun finds that he doesn't hate it as much. not anymore.

"i am." baekhyun steps closer to jongin until they're only a breath apart, and they're still holding that deadlock gaze. and it's _mental_ but there's no one else in the world he trusts this much, no one else he can expose himself to, but maybe it's good to fuck with conventions and start taking risks. he peels back part of the leather covering his chest, exposing the bloodred shape of mars and its satellites. jongin hisses. "when i was nine, my father carved the universe and tattooed its colors into my skin. and as i grew the drawing took on different forms, and he didn't make a move yet because the painting had to 'mature'. whenever he found a new patch of skin he'd add more stars, more galaxies, until he became satisfied with his creation when i turned 16."

"baekhyun," jongin says, and his fingers reach out to trace the circles sprayed over baekhyun's collarbones. "i don't understand."

"i don't understand either," baekhyun says, shrugging. "and i don't think i ever will." 

jongin remains quiet, his dark eyes still taking in the tiny fragment of the universe that baekhyun wears every day, whether he wants to or not. then his hand moves to cradle baekhyun's jaw, and baekhyun thinks that if he falls there will be no one to catch him, but it's so hard to fight back gravity when it's bringing him closer to jongin. he braces himself to see pity reflected back at him, but instead he only sees understanding, and baekhyun thinks nothing has mattered to him more.

"a father should never hurt his son like that. baekhyun, i know i'm in no position to offer you comfort when i'm a 20-year-old artist who can't clean up after himself, but believe me when i say that it doesn't matter what you or your father thinks you are. you're a human being, and you don't deserve to be treated like this. you're worth so much more."

baekhyun can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. "more than five hundred million dollars?"

"more than billions, more than trillions," jongin murmurs, and then baekhyun's face is buried in jongin's chest and jongin's arms encircle him like he's never going to let go again. "more than the entire universe, even."

and for the first time, baekhyun is honest with himself. he lets himself cry.

 

 

five days after his return to the studio, baekhyun sets aside the stuffed toy he's posing with. "jongin," he says. although he's learned that the painter is four years older, he and jongin carry on as usual -- no honorifics, just nonchalance. "i want to ask you a favor."

jongin looks up from his sketchpad. "what is it?" he asks, his tone cautious as he gauges baekhyun's expression.

"remember when i said that i can't model nude? you know the reason why now," baekhyun says, and he fiddles with the hem of his shirt because he still feels unsure about this entire thing. but he wants to do it. he's certain of that, at least. "and i think i'm ready."

in seconds jongin is beside him, and baekhyun thinks it's unfair how part of jongin is still tied to kyungsoo when baekhyun only has space for jongin, and it's somehow discouraging to share with someone who's not even around anymore. but he can't hate kyungsoo because it's not kyungsoo's fault that he's flawless, and even if sehun and jongin remind him several times that he's perfect the way he is, baekhyun still feels so ugly when he wakes up and sees his reflection.

"baekhyun, are you sure?" jongin's eyebrows crease and there's a slight frown on his lips. "i don't want to force you into doing this. if this is for the sake of my art, forget it, because there are a thousand different ways i can share who you are to the world."

baekhyun swallows. he hates this proximity, he hates how it's electric and static and dead and alive at the same time, and he hates how he wants to run when he also wants to stay. "i think...it's because i need to." he stares at jongin's tanned hands, at how the graphite stains the taller boy's fingers, and he tries to decipher the lines leading to the core of jongin's identity. "i want you to paint me," he says, and his voice is stronger now, "to paint the portrait of the world's only living painting. i want you to do it because this is a story i have to tell, and you're the only one i can trust enough to convey it."

jongin doesn't speak. in this room they are distilled into normal people with normal lives, and baekhyun can pretend to be everything that he knows he's not. he sees white space and sun-kissed futures, and baekhyun wants to find the starting line so he can start heading towards a new destination, a better place. 

"and what is that story?" jongin asks, his words slow and deliberate.

"it's the story of a boy who wears the universe night and day," baekhyun says. "it's the story of how he was too small to bear the burden of carrying the universe. but as the days pass his load becomes lighter, and he slowly starts to see that the universe is a part of him, and it won't destroy him like he thought it would."

jongin smiles at him. "it would be an honor to tell that story to the world."

 

 

when you take a moment to let people in, you realize that fear is the glue that keeps your defenses intact. it's that instinct to save oneself, to protect what is so easily broken, that can keep you hidden in the shadows of your own deceit. but in the end you realize that even shows end when the characters bow and the curtains close, and the ones who continue clapping after the encore are also the ones who can see you at your most vulnerable.

that's how baekhyun feels right now as he waits for jongin to set up his tools. he's in a bathrobe, and as jongin goes about his own preparations, baekhyun starts losing courage. but he tries to gather himself together, to steel his hands for when he has to pull the robe open, and he knows he won't be able to do it while looking jongin in the eye. it's more than just the fact that baekhyun will be naked, because he swears to the heavens above that that's the last thing on his mind right now. no, what scares him is the intimacy of exposing himself, of letting every secret spill out, of allowing the walls he's built to crumble to dust. 

"i'm ready," jongin says, perching on his stool. there is patience written on the lines of his body, like he knows how hard this is for baekhyun and he's willing to wait as long as he needs to.

this is baekhyun's starting line. this is his warning gunshot. this is the leap of faith he takes after balancing on the tip of the knife for so long. 

he stalls for time. "how should i pose?"

"whatever pose tells your story best," jongin says. baekhyun wonders how he can be so calm.

and he thinks. what pose _does_ tell his story best? and as he thinks, he recalls those days in his family's little shanty when he'd stayed in the corners of the house. he's creating his own corner right here, right now, and as he thinks of that baekhyun sheds off the bathrobe. then he curls up into a ball and positions himself at a three-fourths angle that shows off the entirety of the universe, and he looks to the side where it seems like he can see eternity stretching out before him. strings of intricate galaxies wrap around his limbs, and the planets are scattered over his torso, and on his back there is _ophiuchus_ and _ursa major_ and _polaris_ along with all the other known constellations and stars.

he hears jongin's gasp, and baekhyun has to fight back the urge to hide himself. he's chosen to do this. he's going to see it through.

baekhyun finds, as he holds himself in this pose, that he loses his inhibitions as he waits for jongin to finish sketching.

he's in a race and he's passed the first few miles, and baekhyun thinks that the weight in his chest is starting to disappear, bit by bit.

 

 

it takes jongin seven fevered nights to finish the painting, just in time for his exhibit at the local art museum. baekhyun refuses to see the finished product, so jongin hands him tickets to the exhibit instead and tells him that he has to be present.

"go with sehun," jongin says, putting down the envelope containing the tickets on baekhyun's bedside table. "i'll meet you after you've seen the painting, since you're so adamant on not even sparing it a glance right now."

and baekhyun wants to tell him that it's not the painting he's chasing after, it's the process. he doesn't know how to explain that posing naked on every single one of those all-nighters had led him to understand who he is, and he doesn't know how to begin telling jongin that for once he can see a future laid out in front of him. it's not so bleak and dark and desolate, and baekhyun wants to tell him that his world now has sunset golds and river blues, that there's a rainbow arcing over the skies in baekhyun's dreams. he looks at the city on the wall and thinks of kyungsoo, and he muses over how they can be so similar but so different. 

most of all he doesn't know how he can thank jongin for everything. baekhyun knows he owes sehun too, but sehun's easier to approach and baekhyun has always thanked him. with jongin there is so much more to say, so much more to share, so much more to feel. how can he explain that jongin is the one who came barreling into his barren dreams and splashed colors all over the monochrome? how can he tell jongin that in many ways, jongin has saved him?

how does he give jongin his heart without getting it broken? 

baekhyun has come to accept that maybe kyungsoo still lingers in this space, that baekhyun hasn't really ever replaced him. and he thinks he can live with that vignette of a troubled man who had meant everything to jongin, but he can't compete yet. and baekhyun isn't bitter about that, not really, because there are other people who are sewn into his identity too: his mother, his father, his lost friend chanyeol, and sehun, his discoverer. he can't begrudge kyungsoo his place in jongin's heart, because he has this niggling suspicion that jongin had been kyungsoo's savior as well. only kyungsoo didn't need someone to save him, he simply needed to see that he'd been saved a long time ago.

so on the day that baekhyun turns 17, he wakes up to a neat studio without a trace of jongin in it, and he picks up the envelope on his table. sehun meets him at the entrance of the building, and together they walk to the museum. baekhyun is going because he wants to see jongin at the end of the road and tell him everything, tell him _thank you_ , tell him that he's leaving because he wants to find that something that will define him the way art defines jongin.

the streets are bustling with people and the flowers are blooming, and baekhyun thinks the world is wonderful when you don't seek out its imperfections. he and sehun chatter along the way, and he learns that sehun is planning to take up dancing soon. baekhyun watches the grace in sehun's movement and thinks _yes, it fits him_ , and he wonders what his own goal is.

there is a line growing outside the museum, and they find their place in the back. it takes them a few minutes before they can get inside, and when they do they find a roped-off path to jongin's exhibit. there is a silver plaque on which _light_ is inscribed, presumably the title of the exhibit, and below it is _kim jongin_. 

baekhyun realizes just how unprepared he is.

he'd thought that the only work featuring baekhyun that jongin included was the one where he had posed naked. he'd assumed that jongin would have other paintings to exhibit, maybe even that portrait of kyungsoo against white sheets. but what he's faced with is every single sketch that jongin has ever done of him, polished and colored and blown up, and baekhyun has never bothered to look at them before because he hadn't thought they were worth seeing.

he understands why the exhibit is _light_ , because each painting is a step up the color scale compared to the last. the first is wistful, the colors almost imperceptible, and baekhyun knows it's their first session. baekhyun's awkwardness shows and he's staring at his feet, but baekhyun feels like there's something tugging him towards that portrait. and as he goes through the entire collection he starts losing his breath, because each one is so stunning that it can't possibly be him in those photos. beside him sehun wears a knowing smile, and baekhyun thinks that sehun is too smart for his own good. 

he braces himself for the last painting, but he thinks he'll never be prepared enough. and he knows he's not because he falls to his knees right then, his legs giving way, and he doesn't think he can stand back up. sehun whistles in awe and slings his arm over baekhyun's shoulder.

this one has the richest, most vivid hues out of all the paintings in the exhibit. and baekhyun wonders how he can look like that, and how jongin's eyes can filter out all the things that baekhyun hates about himself and make his flaws look beautiful. it hits baekhyun, right then and there, that he's not disgusted with himself anymore. he isn't ashamed of his scars and his body, he's not dissatisfied with his features, and he's learned to accept that he may not be perfect but he is himself and that is more than enough.

and then someone kneels beside him, and baekhyun doesn't dare move. he doesn't dare breathe.

"interesting way to look at an exhibit," jongin says.

baekhyun can't help but laugh in agreement.

 

 

sehun has done his vanishing act again, and jongin and baekhyun are wandering by the riverside. the water is smooth, its surface streaked with neon lights and cityscapes, and there's so many kinds of light but baekhyun thinks that the most important one is the light that resides within people's hearts. he and jongin sit on a wrought-iron bench, and the stars twinkle a greeting, and baekhyun thinks of the complex designs on his back.

"i received an offer to study art in europe," jongin says, and baekhyun wants to be surprised but all he feels is an ache in his chest because he recognizes this for what it is. this is a goodbye.

and it's not like he hasn't been planning to do the same, but baekhyun had wanted it to happen a different way. he'd wanted to confess everything to jongin and then leave, and now he can't because he's not supposed to ruin jongin's announcement like that, and he tries to think of another way to tell him. "congratulations." 

jongin glances at him with amusement. "you don't sound so enthusiastic."

and baekhyun's not. he is happy for jongin and for what jongin has achieved, but he doesn't want jongin to go. he's not prepared to see him go -- when he'd thought of leaving, he'd also thought that he could just come back to the building to see jongin again. now it's clear that won't happen. 

"i'm sorry," baekhyun says. "i'm still a little emotional."

jongin nods. "from the exhibit?"

yes, the exhibit. and all the days in the studio, the innumerable sketches, the stories, the unraveling. above all, jongin himself. "yeah. it's just...i really didn't think they'd turn out like that."

jongin hums and they sit there, and everywhere around them people are moving and cars are racing and lights are flickering. they're caught up in realizations and shards of honesty and too much time spent criticizing themselves. baekhyun wants to capture this moment and keep it in his pocket, and maybe look at it while reminiscing about _the end_.

"you're beautiful, you know," jongin says, and there's too much noise but his voice is all baekhyun can hear. "i keep telling you that but you won't listen. and i wanted you to figure that out, i wanted you to see that. and i'm proud of you for facing your fears and moving on from your past, and i'm happy you're not held down by your own insecurities anymore."

jongin reaches for baekhyun's hand and flips it over, and he begins to trace the lines running through baekhyun's palm. "i used to complain about birthdays. why do people have to celebrate them, what's so special about them? i hated the confetti and the cakes and the gifts because it seemed like too much."

"birthdays are meaningful, though," baekhyun says, refraining from mentioning that _hey, it's my birthday today_. 

"yes, they are. later on i realized that the reason why i hated them so much was because people were celebrating on my behalf. i wasn't comfortable receiving so much love and well wishes because i was always waiting for the punch line to drop, for someone to tell me what they wanted in exchange for commemorating another year of my life."

jongin's hand closes over baekhyun's."i guess what i'm trying to say is that i hated how insincere some people could be. and i know i'm not making any sense, but i just want to wish you a happy birthday."

baekhyun stills. he's never told jongin anything about that, he's never dropped a hint to anyone but sehun some weeks past, and --- _oh_. sehun. of course. "when did sehun tell you?"

jongin chuckles. "right around the time when i was deciding what date to choose for the exhibit," he admits. 

"oh." and baekhyun thinks of what else jongin has planned, what other tidbits of knowledge he's gained about baekhyun, and his heart feels a little lighter.

jongin's grip on his hand tightens. "will you come with me to europe?"

they're a watercolor piece, the both of them. bathed in a transparency that makes the scene dream-like, and maybe they've both fallen asleep in the middle of a town still stuck in motion, and baekhyun feels his heart stutter to a stop. 

"i was planning on leaving," baekhyun blurts out. "i want to find something that will mean so much to me, the way dancing means so much to sehun, and the way your art means so much to you."

"is that a no?" jongin asks, his tone a little sad, and baekhyun can see the roads running parallel in jongin's eyes. 

"i don't know," baekhyun says. there are things that rattle in his chest, things that want to slip past his lips, but he keeps them caged. "i'm not sure yet where to go."

jongin exhales. "then come with me," he pleads. "come with me and we'll figure it out together."

baekhyun swallows. "you can't just say things like that, jongin."

"why not?"

the gauntlet is cast at his feet. baekhyun wants to melt into the night air and just lose control for the time being.

"because it's making me hope for things that i can't have." the truth is bittersweet, and baekhyun can almost taste it on his tongue.

"what can't you have, baekhyun?" jongin's tone is low, and it's on the verge of being dangerous. but baekhyun's been too honest today, and he can't seem to stop now.

"you," he says. it's so simple, that one word. "i like you, you know."

and then he feels jongin's lips against his hair, and they're so close they might as well be intertwined, and baekhyun wishes for a way to preserve everything. 

"i can't promise you all the space in my heart," jongin whispers in his ear, "not right now. i can't give that to you yet. but there is a place for you inside, and to be honest you're so close to occupying all of it."

"what do i have to do?" baekhyun murmurs.

"you can accompany me to europe," jongin says, caressing baekhyun's face. "and you can live with me in my studio. you can pursue what you want to pursue, and every day you'll take up more space, until one day you'll have consumed it completely."

baekhyun laughs then sighs. "i feel like i'm being blackmailed."

"mm-hmm. so will you take the chance, baekhyun?" jongin looks at him with a teasing glint in his eyes, but baekhyun can hear his anxiety leaking through and it makes him smile.

"i want to see europe," he says, "so it's a yes."

jongin kisses him, and baekhyun thinks he can see his future opening up before him. and it's more than just the image of him and jongin, side by side -- it's a second chance at living after baekhyun has wasted away his last 16 years. 

 

 

on his 17th birthday baekhyun shrugs off his past and steps into the impermanence of the present, and he's taught how to live by an artist named jongin. and there are days when baekhyun has to drag jongin out of bed and stack his paints, but at the end of the day jongin is his home and baekhyun is content. so he finds his purpose in weaving notes through the air, and he plays the piano while jongin draws, and together they're a patchwork of broken hearts taped together. 

they're forever just a few steps away from being perfect, but baekhyun's always treasured their flaws anyway.

 

 

**a/n:**  
written for the [kaibaek.net](http://kaibaek.net/giveaway) giveaway. inspired by a manga i read several years ago. 


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